


Chlorophyll

by nylandeer



Category: One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF
Genre: (but no consumption), Angst, Anxiety Attacks, Canon Compliant, Depression, Fluff, Laurels, London, Los Angeles, M/M, Mention of Kendall/Harry, Panic Attacks, Radio 1 Breakfast Show, Seriously Angsty, Slight Alcohol Mentions, Slight mentions of weed, Tattoos, brits 2014, non-au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-25
Updated: 2014-08-07
Packaged: 2018-02-05 22:00:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1833745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nylandeer/pseuds/nylandeer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Photosynthesis is a process used by plants and other organisms to convert light energy, normally from the sun, into chemical energy that can be later released to fuel the organisms' activities. Although photosynthesis is performed differently by different species, the process always begins when energy from light is absorbed by proteins called reaction centres that contain chlorophyll, the same chemical compound that gives leaves their green color.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Photosynthesis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All my love & hugs to [Clare](http://azaleachung.tumblr.com/) for putting up with the development of this from the very beginning, as well as telling me it wasn't just a shit idea, and listening to my never-ending list of sad Gryles head-canons. She's a real trooper.  
> Big, HUGE thanks to [Lily](http://blamefincham.tumblr.com/) for being a wonderful beta, nitpicking every sentence, and helping me fix the parts that were crap. Also thanks to her for being my original spirit guide into the world of Nick Grimshaw/Radio 1. 
> 
> I apologize for everything and nothing.  
> Standard disclaimer: none of this actually happened, except for the parts that did.  
> TW: depression, anxiety attacks, panic attacks, slight mentions of alcohol

Harry is trying to remember exactly how photosynthesis works as a dull buzz starts up on his left hip. He knows that the leaves of a plant absorb sunlight, and somehow turn it into energy. Right?

Jeff is sitting 5 feet away, nonchalantly flipping through a glossy magazine, which coincidentally has Harry’s face plastered across the cover. The lovely photo of him squinting into the flash of a paparazzi camera is accompanied by a headline that promises to reveal the intimate details of his most recent relationship. A few years ago, this would’ve made Harry curl up into a ball of shame for days on end. Now, the only thing he feels is the dull heat of the tattoo gun carving out his latest piece.

“Jeff,” he says, lifting his head from the table to peer over, voice low and quiet, “How does photosynthesis work?”

“How am I supposed to know that?” Jeff laughs, quirking a brow. “I never did that well in biology. Honestly didn’t pay much attention in school.”

Harry mumbles an acknowledgment, and lays his head back down on the table. He makes a mental note to ask Zayn later. Or maybe just to Google it. He counts the ceiling tiles above his head, listening to continual soft buzz and the sharp crinkle of Jeff flipping magazine pages. It’s midnight in Los Angeles, and his 20th birthday is in just a few days, but the late January air is warm and sticky; the back door of the shop propped open and a metal fan whirring overhead.

Kendall had offered to throw him a party a few weeks prior, making her proposal with her lips wrapped tight around his cock. The situation had made it difficult to say no, but he didn’t want the cameras and attention on him that are always drawn by her family’s presence. That was for the best, since he had called things off soon after. Jeff offered to throw him a party as well, but it would’ve been full of boring behind the scenes media types that Harry doesn’t really know or care to know. His polite “no thank you” was returned with an unaffected shrug before Jeff turned back to their golf game and proceeded to score a brilliant hole-in-one that Harry hated him for.

Harry fed them these excuses, and almost believed them himself, but part of him knew better. He was holding out for Nick to call him from an ocean away and offer anything, even just a cake in his flat and no one but Puppy in attendance. He wasn’t sure why he was hoping Nick would want to throw him a birthday party, he’s still not sure why that even crossed his mind. If he had asked, Nick probably would have made some snappy remark about how people only get one surprise party, not two in a row. But he didn’t ask—would never have asked—and Nick didn’t offer. And so, he had resigned himself to his current fate, instead deciding to gift himself a large new tattoo and to spend his birthday alone, unpacking his new house.

Harry is shaken out of his trance by the sudden absence of buzzing and hands on his lower belly. He props himself up on his forearms, and takes a look at the fresh tattoo, still harshly red, that the artist is delicately cleaning with a soft wet cloth. There, on each hip, lays a monochrome laurel branch, symmetrical and swooping from his bellybutton to barely curl around the soft part of his hips.

When he looks up, Jeff is standing over him, the magazine tucked under one arm. He reaches out one finger to gently sweep across the left branch, right where it served as cover for an old mistake. Harry winces softly at the touch, and Jeff is quick to apologize.

“Sorry Harry,” he stutters out. “I didn’t really think about that one.”

“It’s okay,” he replies, his voice soft and slurring a little, almost like he’s drunk. He always gets like this after a new tattoo. He feels almost a little high, and very tired. He’d really like to go to sleep, he thinks, glancing to the clock on the wall only to discover that it is almost three in the morning. “Whaddya think?”

“I think they’re beautiful,” Jeff answers honestly. “I wouldn’t personally get them, but then again, I wouldn’t personally get a lot of your tattoos.” They both laugh, but Harry’s is shallow and too breathy. “Is this why you were asking about photosynthesis?”

“No, no,” mutters Harry, shaking his head. “It was something entirely unrelated. Gonna, uh, put a plant in the kitchen, wanted to make sure it could survive there.” Jeff looks at him, eyes narrowed in obvious disbelief, but makes no comment, only nods a little. “Can you, uh drive me home? You can stay the night if you want.” Jeff nods again, not saying a word, and takes Harry’s keys from his outstretched hand.

After the tattoo artist bandages his newly inked hips, Harry pays her, adding a large tip for opening her shop up at midnight for him, and whispers a plea not to tell anyone about it. He and Jeff exit quickly through the back door, and Harry folds himself into the passenger seat of his new black Jaguar, another birthday gift from himself, to himself. He presses his face against the glass, watching lights fly bye as Jeff drives through the streets and hills of Hollywood.

He’s brought back to a similar memory, one from far away and long long ago. He was young, and his mother had just walked out on his father, taking him and Gemma and a few suitcases. She had woken him up in the middle of the night, lifting him into her arms and assuring him that everything was okay, they were just going to stay at grandma’s for a while. Gemma was already asleep in the passenger seat, and Anne drove away from what was no longer their home, as Harry watched the street lights flash by overhead and listened to his mother cry quietly ahead of him. When they arrived at his grandmother’s, Anne had cried for days. After a week, Harry had crawled into her lap and pressed his stuffed yellow rabbit into her chest. His rabbit always made him happy, maybe it could make her happy too.

The lights began to grow fewer and farther between as the car made its way towards the place he was now making his home. For a moment, he wished he still had his old rabbit—that it wasn’t lost among boxes of old baby clothes and mothballs—thinking it may still have its old powers. But he knows he’s not a child anymore, and the rabbit would be no more useful to him now than it was to his mother back then.

When they finally pull up to Harry’s front door, Jeff half drags Harry inside, limbs askew and head lolling sleepily, until they reach Harry’s bedroom door. He helps Harry lay down on the unmade bed and pulls off his shoes. Harry whispers “thank you”, his voice heavy with sleep.

“Okay Harry,” Jeff says quietly, “I’m going to catch a cab home, seeing as you have yet to unpack and there is no place for me to sleep.” Harry justs nods into the pillow. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

Harry hears the jangle of keys, followed by the heavy front door swinging shut. Several minutes later, he hears the cough of a car backfiring slightly and the crunch of tires on gravel, and then, he’s out cold.

 

**

The crazy thing is, he actually _wants_ to spend his birthday alone. As usual, however, no one believes him, so he spends most of the 31st and some of the 1st fielding calls from various LA pals. Jeff comes over around noon with a greasy paper bag full of Mexican food and a small vanilla cake with white icing. Harry still has no dining table yet, so they eat the food on the warm hardwood floor. Jeff even produces a birthday candle in the shape of a 3, which he lights with the burner on the stove, and sings “Happy Birthday” loud and off-key.

“Make a wish first!” Jeff scolds as Harry moves to blow out the candle. Harry laughs, but thinks for a moment. He has everything he could ever ask for, and he almost thinks he doesn’t need a wish. Except, except for one thing.

_I wish to be happy._

He blows out the candle with an overdramatic huff, and Jeff cracks a joke about how impressive it was that he blew out all those candles at once. They stay on the floor for the better part of an hour, eating the cake with their fingers; Jeff smushes a small piece into Harry’s right eye, and even after he wipes it off, his lashes are sticky and icing blurs his vision.

He gets up to take a call from Gemma, and when he returns, Jeff is clearing away their floor picnic.

“Who was that? On the phone,” Jeff asks absentmindedly.

“Just Gemma. The usual cheesiness. ‘I can’t believe you’re twenty. I remember when you were thirteen and belting show tunes in front of the mirror in nothing but your pants.’” This elicits a bark of laughter from Jeff, and Harry knows he’s filing it away to later mock him.

“By the way, you still want to meet Anne and Robin when they visit next month right?”

“Of course. And they are still welcome to stay at my family’s condo in Malibu if they would like.”

“Yeah, yeah. I think they’d like that.”

“Oh, I nearly forgot, Irving is _insisting_ he gets to meet them too. Made some cheesy joke about meeting your real parents. He thinks you won’t love him anymore.”

“Of course I will! What’s Herschel without Irving?,” Harry asks jokingly. Jeff looks mock offended, his face twisting into an over-exaggerated look of shock. “And of course Jerome too! Nursing home pals for life!”

A while back, Harry had joked that Irving was such a typical old man name, and immediately dubbed himself and Jeff ‘Herschel and Jerome’, the apparent ‘old man’ versions of their names. It had become a joke amongst the family, even addressing a birthday card to ‘Herschel Edward Styles, #1 Grandpa’.

“Good,” Jeff says with a smile as he gathers up the trash. “Herschel and Irving would get bored without Jerome. He instigates all the wheelchair races and sneaking around late at night.” They both laugh and Harry sticks his tongue out at Jeff.

As Jeff cleans up the last scraps of their lunch, Harry thumbs through all the texts he’s received. Everybody has come out of the woodwork to wish him a Happy Birthday. Well, almost everybody.

“Harry?” He looks up from his phone to see Jeff peering over at him, his face twisted in concern. “What’s wrong?” Harry hadn’t realized his emotions were plastered across his face, unaware of the sag of his mouth and droop of his eyes.

“Uh, nothing,” he mutters, “nothing, it’s fine.”

“Oh,” Jeff murmurs knowingly. “He hasn’t called you then?” Harry shakes his head ‘no’ and he feels like he’s swallowed one of Jeff’s golf balls. “Not even a text?”

Harry can’t even shake his head, as its taking all his focus to bite back tears. The golf ball in his throat begins to burn and his eyes water.

Harry can hear Jeff’s shoes smack against the tile, and in a matter of seconds, his arms are pulling Harry upright, around, and into a tight hug. Harry collapses into the shorter man and lets his his head sag onto Jeff’s shoulder. As tears threaten to spill out of Harry’s eyes, Jeff begins to run a hand through his hair, murmuring words of comfort.

They stay there for what seems like forever, Jeff stroking his hair and rubbing small, slow circles into his lower back. Finally, Harry straightens up and pulls away, lifts the hem of his shirt to blot the moisture from his eyes. When he lets his shirt down, his face is set into a harsh smile.

“C’mon,” he barks, spinning on his heels and making a beeline for the fridge. “Let’s get twatted and lay outside by the pool. We must take advantage of this unseasonably warm weather that is clearly a birthday present from mother nature.”

“Harry, it’s Southern California,” Jeff says with a laugh. “It’s always warm and sunny.”

 _I know_ , thinks Harry. _That's exactly why I moved here_.

Harry grabs a bottle of champagne from the fridge that Alexa has dropped off the day before, and two plastic cups. With Jeff following behind, he stalks out onto his back patio, and pops open the champagne with a flourish. He pours the two cups until the foam teeters precariously at the edge.

“To you, Mister Styles, on the occasion of your birth,” declares Jeff, raising his glass.

“Here, here,” chimes Harry. “To me. To you. To Los Angeles. And to photosynthesis.”

“Figured out how that works yet?” Jeff asks, sipping his champagne gingerly.

Harry takes a large swig, letting the champagne fizz against his teeth. He sets down his cup and strips off his t-shirt, lies back on the warm cement of the patio.

He glances down at the branches on his hips, still slightly scabby, traces of vaseline making each leaf shine ever so slightly in the afternoon sun. For a moment, through the fizzy haze of champagne already taking hold and a trick of sunlight, Harry thinks they almost look real.

“Still working on it,” he sighs, taking another swig and laying his head back down. “It’s a more complicated theory than I originally believed.”

 

**

Harry’s plane lands at Heathrow early in the morning, but Gemma is waiting for him at the kerb in the blue Ford Focus he bought for her. He tosses his bags into the back seat and tucks himself into the passenger side before leaning across to wrap his older sister in a hug.

“How was the flight?” she asks when they finally separate. She twists the key and starts the car, pulling away from the kerb and into the steady stream of taxis and shuttle buses.

“It was fine. Took a sleeping pill and slept through the whole thing. And somehow made it all the way here without being papped or harassed. Wonder what I have to thank for all that luck.”

“Oh that is lucky,” Gemma agrees as she pulls onto the motorway. “And since you slept, you won’t be jetlagged this trip either. How have you been sleeping lately -just by the way?”

“Umm, better,” he responds tentatively. “Been taking the sleeping pills less and less. I’ve been doing a lot better in general.”

“Yeah?” Gemma inquires, her brow quirks in the same way Harry’s does when he asks a question. “Better, but not like, one hundred percent better?”

“No, not one hundred percent,” he admits, looking out the window as the London skyline flies by. Another place that used to be home. “But it’s something. And Dr. Dunn thinks it’s only going to get better the longer I stay in LA. And out of London. More sun, less emotionally tainted, ya know?” Gemma nods and hums in agreement.

They chat absent-mindedly, about Harry’s new house, Gemma’s life in London, family and friends. At some point, Gemma flicks on the radio, just as an innocuous pop song is ending. The DJ sings along in a hoarse, tone deaf voice with the last few lines.

“For anyone just joining us, I’d like you all to know that I hate Matt Fincham. Care to tell our good listeners why?”

“Big Boss Ben had the brilliant idea of recording you while telling you about the Rajars. And then prank you.”

“I did text Ben later on that afternoon being like, I hate you.”

“What did he say?”

“Blame your producer.”

“Fair shout.”

“Well I do. I hate you Fincham.”

“Sorry.”

“No you’re not.”

Suddenly, Harry can’t breathe. He tries to take down air in huge gulps, but Nick’s voice has expanded to replace all of the air in the car. He’s having a panic attack, and he tries to tell himself to calm down, to focus on his breathing—in, out, in, out—but he can’t focus, and he can't breathe.

“Gemma,” he chokes out, tears welling up in the corners of his eyes. The moment she glances over at him, she’s dodging lanes of traffic to pull over on the shoulder.

Harry didn't suffer from those ailments that picked at you over a lifetime, like allergies or warts, dandruff or a sore back, floaters in your eyes or lust for food that made you fat. He went straight to the hard-core stuff, the rough waves in the gene pool, like the depression that sent him into weeks long spirals, or the anxiety that crippled him where he stood. People never could quite comprehend that he got more from Anne than her sharp face and dark curls.

Once they’re pulled off the motorway, Gemma flicks the key, the engine cuts out, and Nick’s voice retreats to whence it came. Gemma is scampering across the center console, wedging herself into the seat besides Harry and drawing him into her chest. Her left hand wraps around him, petting his back long and slow, while she runs her right hand lightly through his hair. She presses her lips to the crown of his head and whispers “shhhhh shhhh shhhh. Shhhhh Harry, breathe with me, breathe with me Harry.”

It’s something she’s done ever since they were little. When he had his first panic attack at age ten after being forced into going onto the London Eye even though he was terrified of heights, she’d wrapped herself around him and whispered to him, matched up their breaths, and brought him slowly, carefully back.

They stay like this, brother and sister wedged into the passenger seat, until Harry’s wheezing gasps for air slow down, one matched breath at a time. After what feels like an eternity, Gemma crawls back into the driver’s seat, throwing the car into gear and extinguishing the radio. They drive in silence, Harry with his knees pulled up to his chest, gripping Gemma’s hand between the seats. After several hours, she pulls off the motorway in Stafford, about two thirds of the way to Holmes Chapel, and into the parking lot of a dingy pub—The Lucky Penny.

There are some tables scattered around the front door, and Harry sits down at random. It's a crisp day, but bright sunlight cuts through the early spring chill making it just warm enough to sit outside—granted you have a coat. Gemma wanders inside, and emerges several minutes later brandishing a dark pint, a cup of coffee, and an over-flowing basket of chips with cheese. She places the pint in Harry’s waiting fingers, and he drinks hurriedly from the glass. Gemma pokes at the chips until Harry slides the empty pint glass across the table towards Gemma with a pleading look. She sighs, but relents and goes inside to fill it—she knows he won’t speak honestly until he gets another pint in him.

About halfway through the second pint, and a quarter of the way into the chips, Harry gingerly puts down the glass, and and gears up to speak. But Gemma gets there first.

“So,” she starts, “what was that all about? You just told me you were doing better.”

Harry sighs and rubs his temples “I am getting better Gem,” he insists. “I haven’t had an attack like that in almost two months.”

“Yeah?” she huffs, “And how are we supposed to believe you? It’s not like you tell any of us how things are going. We don’t know anything about this new doctor, Dr. Dunn. Within five minutes of seeing you, you have a panic attack over hearing Nick on the radio.”

“Dr. Dunn is amazing, he’s been so helpful. And with Nick, I was just surprised. I haven’t talked to him since I left London.”

“A gasp and a gaping mouth would be surprise. A panic attack is not surprised reaction,” Gemma snaps, punctuating the last few words with simultaneous hits to the table. Harry slumps back in his chair and crosses his arms over his chest in response. “Stop acting like a child Harry. Use your fucking words, and tell me what’s going on.” She’s angry now, eyes wide, cheeks rosy, voice increasing in volume. “You seem so happy when mum or I talk to you on the phone. All the lads keep saying LA is doing you wonders and they’re okay with you being there and not here. Everyone thought going to LA would be good for you.”

“Yeah well, maybe it's not,” he croaks, a lump starting to form in his throat.

Gemma’s face immediately softens, and Harry thinks maybe she gets smaller, shrinks back to size, like Bruce Banner un-Hulking.

“What’s wrong Harry?” she asks, her voice quiet and tinged with worry. “What’s going on? Is it something with Nick?”

“Yes,” Harry muses, “and no.” He swallows the lump in his throat, takes a set of steady breaths. The beer is making him feel soft and wobbly, and he spills everything to Gemma. “Things aren't perfect, but I _am_ doing better than I was in London. I just... I love Nick, I still do. And he won't talk to me, he didn't even call me on my birthday. That's the first panic attack I've had in months, I swear.” He pauses to take a sip of his beer, and Gemma nods. “Sometimes I feel like I’ll never be not depressed, ya know? I could be doing so well, and something so small can just set me off and leave me spiraling. It’s not just a mood, it’s messed up chemicals and whatnot, and sometimes it’s all-consuming and sometimes there’s just a nudge of it in the corner of my brain. It’s part of me, and I know that, and I have to learn to work with it and do the best I can despite it. And being in LA is definitely part of that.”

“Yeah, okay,” Gemma muses. “Why is LA so good for you?"

“I think so,” he answers, smiling. “I can’t explain it, but the sun there… it warms me, inside and out.” Gemma quirks an eyebrow. “I even got this new tattoo. It's like... Here, I’ll just show ya.” Harry stands up and pulls up his jumper every so slightly to show Gemma the branches wrapping around his midriff.

“Nice branches Hazza,” she teases. “Glad you got your butterfly and those birds a place to sit. Must be tired from constantly flying around your chest.”

“Gemma it’s not a butterfly, it’s a moth,” he grumbles. “But no, that’s not the point. They’re laurel leaves, like for victory-”

“Eugh, Hazza, I do not need to know what you get up to in your private time!” She wags her tongue at him and he pokes it with a finger. “Gross! I don’t know where those have been!”

“In the same basket of chips as you!” Harry cries. Gemma just rolls her eyes at him and laughs.

“Anyways,” he continues, stretching the word into twelve syllables. “They’re laurel leaves for victory. But they’re also like, plants and plants soak up sunlight, like you know how photosynthesis works?”

“Harry I could care less about whatever strange new tattoo you’ve had added to your collection,” she interjects. Harry frowns a little, because it’s not just some strange new tattoo. “Just promise me you’ll be honest with mum and I from now on? And you’ll see this new doctor, Dr. Dunn, every week?”

“Yeah,” Harry agrees with a sigh.

They sit there and talk for a while longer, and Harry doesn’t try to bring the new tattoo up again, no matter how much he wants to. He justs wants someone else to understand what it means, to talk to him about it, but obviously it's not going to be Gemma.

Before they leave, Gemma snaps a photo of the two of them, sun shining in the background. She posts it to Instagram with the caption: _I missed yoooou_.

Harry snuggled into her side momentarily and whispers, “I missed you too.”

 

**

The horn squawks as Harry slams his head against the steering wheel. How could he forget what time Nick’s show was on. It’s called the Breakfast Show, _of course_ it’s on at nine in the morning while Harry is driving from Holmes Chapel to London. He has to go into London for the day to meet with the lads and discuss some details about their upcoming tour, so he figured he would give Nick a ring and see if he wanted to have lunch.

But no. Instead, he calls Nick while his show is on and he’s left feeling like a complete wanker. How could he forget something like that. Harry could hear over the phone that the others knew it was him too, and he knows neither he nor Nick will live this down for a long time.

Harry’s phone buzzes against his thigh, and he swipes it open, head still resting on the steering wheel.

_saw you’re back in london. call you back when i can. xx_

_can’t wait to hear all about el lay ;)_

 

**

For the next few days, Harry never lets his phone leave his sight.

There’s no return call.

 

**

_london edition hotel. come._

It takes Harry all of about thirty seconds after he gets the text to jump out of bed, throw on a sweater, a pair of boots, and call a cab. He rushes through the empty house, plucks his keys and wallet from the floor of the front hall, and throws himself into the black-cab already waiting at the kerb outside his door. Fifteen minutes and several chewed cuticles later, the cab pulls up outside the back door of the hotel. Harry hands the driver a handful of notes and tells him to keep the change.

“I can’t take all this money, it’s too much!” says the driver in shock.

“No, I insist really,” Harry replies with a smile, grabbing his things and fleeing from the cab.

It’s a proper posh hotel; tall and dark with windows full of dim colored lights, but the back entrance is sparse and unremarkable. He walks up the steps and is greeted by a tall and broad security guard who let him in almost immediately. He quickly texts Nick.

_I'm here._

He doesn’t know what else to do—doesn’t even know whose party this is, who is here—so he just stands in the lobby of the hotel.

_’m coming to find you. don’t get lost or they’ll have to turn you into lost & found. then they’ll have to page me over the intercom and that’ll just be embarrassing._

_Okay mum._

_i don’t know what popstars are into these days, but that is too kinky for me. ;)_

Harry slumps with one foot against the wall, one on the floor, watching groups of beautiful people in beautiful clothes ghost past him. He realizes that for the first time in what feels like an eternity, no one is watching him back. It feels liberating, and oddly lonely, all at the same time. He pops down his foot and presses himself, black sweater on black jeans on black boots, into the shadowed wall, closes his eyes and wonders what it would feel like to be this invisible all the time.

Interviewers are always asking them, “If you had a superpower, what would it be?” Louis and Niall always like to fuck around and say “meat-vision” or whatever equally idiotic thing Louis decides is funny today. Harry always says he would like to be invisible. Sure, he always makes a joke out of it, saying he’d sit in on meetings and other silly things to keep Lou’s jokes running, but he really would like to be invisible, even just for a day. Just so he could do normal things without being mobbed, like going to Marks & Spencer or have tea in the park or just walk through London without being stopped every fifty metres by teenage girls. The thing they don’t tell you about being famous, you’re never alone, but you’re always lonely.

Harry is so wrapped up in his own mind that it takes him almost a full minute to register a huge pair of hands squeezing his shoulders and someone speaking very very close to his face.

“Hello popstar!” says the face, as one hand moves from his shoulder to tap roughly on his forehead. “Ya in there?”

“Hello Nicholas Grimshaw,” Harry says, smile involuntarily splitting his face in two.

Nick pulls back, an equally broad smile mirrored on his face, and Harry immediately misses the feel of Nick’s hands and the warmth of his vodka laced breath in his face.

“C’mon,” Nick chirps, “let’s get outta here. I’m not drunk enough to be at this party and you’re underdressed.” Nick grabs Harry’s hand, and Harry lets go of the breath he didn’t even realize he was holding. He sucks it quickly back in the moment Nick starts to pull him through a crowd of people and almost yanks his arm clean out of its socket.

The moment the frankly, fucking cold, February air hits Harry’s skin, Nick drops his hand. He makes his way over to a black-cab idling outside the hotel, crawls inside, and makes an attempt at taking off his shoes. Harry can’t help but laugh, watching the gangly man try to stretch out in the back of the cab, fumbling with his shoes like an overgrown toddler. He manages to wrestle them off as Harry climbs into the cab next to him and gives the cabbie Nick’s address.

There are camera flashes all around them, and Harry knows there will be new photos and rumors splayed across the front page of every newspaper in the morning, but he can’t be arsed to care. He wrestles his iPhone from his too-small pockets and idly scrolls through Instagram, double tapping some photo of Liam at Funky Buddha, again.

As the cab starts to pull away, Harry glances over at Nick, who’s got his hands wrapped around his ankles, and a dumb grin plastered across his face.

“What’re you doing?” Harry asks with a laugh.

“I’m hiding,” Nick says, as if this should be totally obvious. “I’ve got crow’s feet. Don’t want my face in the Sun like this.”

Harry stares at him for a moment, straight faced to Nick’s broad smile, and unable to keep it in any longer, they both bust up laughing. They’re racing through the streets of London, streetlights throwing strange shapes across their faces. After a few minutes of doubled over laughter and poking each other in the side, Nick pulls his face straight. He stares straight ahead, and the streetlights of downtown London throw strange shapes and shadows across his face.

Nick reaches across the seat and takes Harry’s hand in his. _I miss you,_ Harry thinks to himself. _I've missed you so much._ Nick runs his thumb over Harry’s fingers, slow and rough, but it still feels like electric shocks to Harry.

Across the silence, eyes still locked forward, Nick whispers to Harry, “I missed you too.”

They sit in silence for the rest of the ride, Nick focusing on the headrest in front of him, Harry tipping his head towards the window, watching the streetlights flicker in and out on his way to someone else’s home—one he once thought could become his own.

When they arrive, Harry pays the cabbie and they unfold themselves from the back of the cab and clamor down the stairs. Nick unlocks the door, and immediately makes his way over to his room, shutting the door tightly behind him.

Once, Nick’s home felt warm and welcoming to Harry, but now it just feels strange, like he’s never been here before. He hears a scuttling on the floor and bends down just in time for Puppy to jump at his chest.

“Well hello there darling girl,” Harry cooes as he scratches behind her ears and down over her long back. “How are you? I’ve missed you.” Puppy laps at his mouth for a moment before Harry stands back up. He has a notoriously poor history with dogs, but Puppy, Puppy is Nick’s dog, so he made an effort. Occasionally he finds himself missing her, and considers getting a dog, before remembering that ninety nine point nine percent of all dogs hate him.

He makes his way over to the kitchen, Puppy trotting along at his heels, and sets about making two cups of tea. He looks up as Nick came out of the bedroom in only black boxer shorts and a well-worn Justin Bieber t-shirt.

It feels the same every time Harry came home from somewhere, or even just walks back into whatever room Nick is in. Whenever he’s with Nick, there’s always something, some little clap inside his head, like a distant echo of the deafening thunder he heard when he'd first met Nick.

It was halfway between his seventeenth and eighteenth birthdays, and Harry had—quite literally—run into him on his way to the bar, spilling Nick’s drink down the front of his pristine suit. They were both half drunk and fully flushed, and Harry apologized profusely, before getting Nick another drink and insisting on footing the dry cleaning bill. When he had finally introduced himself and they shook hands, Harry heard thunder rolling within his head and the air turned static around them, as it does after a storm. It wasn’t always comfortable, the feeling between them, but it was persistent. “What you two have, that’s called electricity,” a nutty drunk in the park named Burnt Sienna had told him once, and Harry was constantly terrified he wouldn’t survive the next shock.

Nick makes his way over to the kitchen and arranges himself on a stool across the island from Harry. Harry nudges one of the mugs towards Nick; he nods and takes it in two hands, sips gingerly at the steaming liquid. He’s different than when Harry last saw him, more worn in, a little tired. His quiff is beginning to droop low over his forehead, and it bobs as he moves to sip his tea.

“So popstar,” Nick drawls, setting his mug down on the counter with more force than necessary. The ceramic clicks loudly against the tile, and a little liquid spills out over the lip. “How’s LA treating you?”

Harry looks down at the milky brown tea in the mug between his fingers. Steam rises from it in poetic swirls; wrapping around and disappearing. “It’s good,” he mumbles, “sunny.”

“Bought a house, yeah? I saw pictures in the papers, looks nice.” Harry just nods. “And you’re selling the place here?”

“Yeah. Gemma’s gonna move in there. I’m actually staying there while I’m in town. Except all my furniture is on its way to my new house, so I’ve been sleeping on the floor in a blanket nest.”

Harry looks up from his tea to see something creep across Nick’s face; a look somewhere between impatience and amusement. It’s the same look he gets when Harry acquires a new seemingly random tattoo, or cut someone’s favorite shirt up to make a new headscarf, or spent the afternoon playing chess in the park with an old man who had been forgotten by his own grandchildren—as he did all too often. “Nobody could accuse you of being boring” was what Nick often said when he got that look.

Nick laughs, bright and true. “An international popstar, and you’re sleeping on the floor of your own home. You are a caricature of yourself, you do know that right? God, I forgot how weird you are.”

Harry’s mouth drops open. “I can’t believe you are calling me weird.”

Nick brings his hand to his heart and feigns a look of shock and confusion. “What ever could you mean?”

“Oh, I don’t know. How about that time you dyed your hair pink?”

“It was in at the time. Katy Perry did it. And it was for charity,” Nick replies, sipping slowly at his tea.

“Dressing up as Hason for a hen party we weren’t even supposed to be at.”

“Hanson was Gellz’s idea, and only you weren’t supposed to be there.”

“Muscle suit in the park.”

“You wore the suit and no one recognized you for like, three hours. More like genius.”

“Fashian.”

“Humiliating Ian. Good, old fashioned fun.”

“So would you say you’re less weird, more just regular evil?”

“The point could be argued, but I prefer to just think of myself as playful,” Nick says.

Nick shifts in his seat and Harry can sense an almost imperceptible shift in the mood of the room. Nick flicks his eyes downward, runs his fingers over the lip of the mug, clears his throat.

“I, uh…” Nick stumbles over his words, tongue caught in his throat. “I’m sorry I didn’t get back to you the other day. After you called me while I was on radio.” Harry just looks at him. “I’ve just been really busy, with work and parties and preparing for the Brits.”

Harry knows this isn’t true, but he hasn’t seen Nick in months, and he doesn’t want to say anything now. He doesn’t want to say that Nick usually would’ve dropped everything for him. Doesn’t want to ask why Nick didn’t call on his birthday. Doesn’t want to say that it was ten days between the call and now. Doesn’t want to ask why now, when he’s drunk and—Harry guesses—lonely, he finally reaches out to Harry.

“Yeah Nick, it’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”

They sit there, stuck in a very awkward silence for a minute before Nick blurts out, “You can say no, but do you like, want to sleep with me?” He quickly adds, “Not like, sex, just, like, cuddling? Sorry, I’m just a little drunk. And I miss my friend Harry.”

Harry’s heart twists a bit painfully at those last words, but he misses Nick too, and he’d rather sleep here than on his bedroom floor. “Yeah,” he says, nodding.

“Yeah I will.”

Harry takes both mugs over to the sink and washes them out. He can hear Nick softly padding over the floor of the flat towards his bedroom. Harry know what what he’s doing isn’t smart. Dr. Dunn would call it ‘self-destructive behavior’. This is the kind of thing that causes him to spiral downwards for days at a time, unable to get out of his own head, and stuck in that place he never wants to go to. He promised Gemma and his mum not a week ago -right after the panic attack in the car- that he would stop doing things like this. He shouldn’t have come here in the first place. He should march into Nick’s room and tell him he won’t do it, he has to leave. He’s going to do it.

He slams the mug he's cleaning carefully—he may be mad but he doesn’t want it to break—into the sink, and marches over to Nick’s room. He marches softly though, because he thinks Puppy is asleep and he doesn’t want to wake her. It’s not her fault this is all happening. She shouldn’t lose sleep over it. Harry pushes open the bedroom door quickly, so it won’t hit the unoiled part of the hinge and let out the loud squeak it sometimes does.

Harry is all primed to give Nick a piece of his mind, but then he spots Nick, curled up around a pillow, eyes batting lazily, and he can’t do it. “C’mere,” Nick mumbles, voice thick with sleep, and Harry obliges. He kicks off his thick boots, and they fall to the floor with a heavy thunk, followed quickly by the sharp zip and soft thud of his jeans, and the soft whoosh of him lifting his shirt over his head. He falls to his knees on the bed and crawls towards the top, flipping over and settling above the covers on his back, eyes glued to the ceiling.

Nick reaches out from behind his pillow and traces his fingers across Harry’s right hip, outlining each leaf with a dull fingernail. Harry sucks in a sharp breath between his teeth and feels his cock stiffen up in his tight pants.

“These are new,” Nick muses, now running the pad of his pointer finger up and down the length of the branch. “I like them. Bit cocky though, don’t ya think?”

Harry snorts out a laugh and immediately covers his mouth and nose with a hand. “First of all, puns are my area of expertise. It’s the only thing I’ve got going for me in the funny department. Please don’t take that away from me.” Nick lets out a muffled laugh into the pillow. “And second of all, they’re not a laurel wreath victory crown thingy for my dick, okay? Why does everyone think that?”

Nick practically guffaws this time, not even the pillow stifling his outburst of laughter. “Because, Mr. Styles,” Nick replies matter of factly once he’s composed himself. “A ‘laurel wreath victory crown thingy for your dick’ is _totally_ something you would do.”

“Heyyyyy,” Harry whines. “That’s not true! All my tattoos have special meaning!” Nick looks blankly at him for a moment before bursting into laughter again. Harry prods him in the cheek with a long finger. “Niiiiick, don’t be mean!”

Nick pulls himself together -mostly. “Harry, I’m _sure_ some of your tattoos have meanings of cosmic importance. But you have an American football symbol, a wonky guitar, and a crown on your big toe. Don’t try to tell me those have special meanings.”

Harry frowns and folds his arms over his chest, lets out a grand “harumph” to let Nick know that he is very unhappy with him.

Nick sighs, and tips Harry’s face towards him with a large hand. “Okay then. What do the leaves mean?” Harry clears his throat, gears up for his usual speech. “And don’t give me whatever crap you’ve been giving everyone else, popstar.”

So Harry doesn’t. He tells him the truth, plain and simple. He tells Nick about his mother, and how he got the unlucky genes, how when he was fourteen he started to have bouts of cloying depression that he couldn’t shake no matter how hard he tried. That he almost had to drop out of the X-Factor because he often struggled to get motivated, even about things he loves, and that he was tired of putting on a happy face every day for the cameras and the other contestants. He tells Nick about the long list of therapists and psychologists he’s seen, and the assorted drugs that left his brain in a haze every time. He tells him about the realization he’d come to while in Los Angeles in November for various things, that sun, even in small amounts, had the power to switch everything terrible off more than any drugs or therapy ever had. And how coming back to London and the rain and the grey skies made him feel like he was falling into a black hole with his limbs bound.

Harry pauses, looking at Nick, trying to gauge his reaction. He and Nick had been friends for what seems like forever, and together for a good chunk of that. But this is something he’s never told Nick before, never told a lot of people, really. Not even the band knows. Harry worries Nick will be offended that he never told him. Or that Nick will have the same impression of mental illness as so many others do, and think him crazy. But Nick’s not saying anything or doing anything, at least not yet.

“Everything was amazing in Australia,” he blurts out. “I felt so happy for once, I thought I’d be alright. But the moment I we got back from tour, it was all the same. I spent days in my bed, dragged myself out for commitments, plastered on a face, and got right back into bed when I went home. And then I was in LA and it was the same as Australia, and I just knew. And my new therapist says it’s totally possible, that there’s other cases like mine, it’s a thing. There’s scientific merit.”

“Yeah okay,” says Nick, nodding, but he sounds a little lost. “So what’s this got to do with the leaves?”

“Well, you know how plants, like, need sunlight to survive?”

“Oh, you mean, like, photosynthesis?”

Harry lights up, his face becoming animated. “Yeah! Like photosynthesis. Plants like, take in sunlight through their leaves and make food or summat.”

“Not quite,” Nick laughs, shaking his head. “They actually convert the sunlight into energy. Chlorophyll, like absorbs the light or summat, then another chloro-something turn the light into energy through photosynthesis.”

“You are so smart Nick!" Harry beams, “I’ve been trying to figure that one out for ages!”

“I’m not going to comment on the fact that you could’ve looked it up online. Or that you got a tattoo without really understanding why you got it,” Nick says, smirking across the pillow. “And I’m not that smart, we made up a song about photosynthesis on the show to help some girl that texted in with revision. Continue.”

“Okay,” Harry starts. “So like, plants and flowers need the sun to bloom, and so do I.”

Nick nods. “Okay, bloom equals happy, got it. So you’re basically a flower?”

Harry laughs. “Yeah I’m a flower and these are my leaves,” he says, drawing his fingers over the laurels. “They help me take in as much sunlight as I can. Don’t you like my petals too?” he asks, tugging at clumps of hair. Nick reaches out to tug on one, too.

“Yes Harry,” Nick says, a smile splitting his face in two.

“D’ya understand, Nick?” Harry can feel his heart beating hard in his chest. It’s okay if Gemma and Jeff and whomever else don’t understand, but he needs Nick to understand this. Nick nods solemnly.

“You’re a flower, Harry. A sunflower. The biggest, tallest, lankiest sunflower, flopping around in the breeze. The most beautiful sunflower to ever exist,” Nick replies. “And now, you’ve got big, beautiful leaves full of chlorophyll taking in all the sunlight and doing photosynthesis.”

Nick reaches across the bed and wraps an arm around Harry, who allows himself to be pulled snug up against Nick. Nick nuzzles sleepily into Harry’s neck and mumbles, “I understand. I love your leaves, my beautiful sunflower.”

 

**

Harry wakes to the sound of muffled traffic and a dog whining. Harry opens his eyes slowly, and realizes he’s not lying in the nest of blankets on his floor, and that the whining dog is just outside the door. He rolls onto his side and “Shit.” He’s next to Nick. In Nick’s bed. In Nick’s room. In Nick’s one bed-womb flat. “Fucking shit,” he whispers, already scrambling out of bed. He picks up his clothes from the floor, and squeezes out the door as quietly as possible. Puppy nips at his ankles, barking as he moves across the living room and starts redressing.

“Puppy,” he pleads with her. “Please not right now. Please stop barking!” But she doesn’t let up, and Harry is forced to scoop her up and deposit her in the bathroom, shutting the door to muffle the noise.

His tugs his sweater over his head, and knots a small ponytail on the crown of his head, grabs his keys. He slips out the front door, ensuring that it doesn’t slam shut behind him, and blinks into the harsh sunlight. Blessedly, there is a cab rolling down the street, and he sprints up Nick’s front stairs to hail it before it gets away. As he slides into the cab, he hears the click of a shutter lens from somewhere across the street. “Fuck,” he mumbles, not bothering to look for the pap as the cab quickly rolls away.

**

Harry looks at himself in the long mirror over the sink, and wonders how he got here. Not here, in this bathroom in the O2. Not even here, in a “world famous boy-band.” Here, as in depressed, overtired, running away from the man he loves, and the smallest bit drunk. He reaches into the tap and splashes water over his face. The dark circles under his eyes threaten to peek out from under the makeup Lou slathered on him. He runs a wet, shaky hand through his quiff, and breathes out slowly.

He ducks out of the bathroom and is on his way back to his table when someone grabs his wrist and pulls him into a stairwell.

“Don’t worry Haz, it’s just me,” Nick whispers, and Harry breaths out an involuntary sigh of relief.

“Don’t scare me like that,” he says with a forced chuckle. “I thought for a second that some crazed fan-girl was trying to kidnap me or summat. Guess I was wrong about the ‘girl’ part though.”

“Very funny,” Nick replies, sticking his tongue out at Harry. “Besides, if I was going to kidnap any of you, it would be Zayn.”

“Touché, Grimshaw.”

There’s a moment of thick silence before Nick blurts out, “So why’d you just leave this morning? Didn’t even wake me up to say goodbye. Just walked out.” Harry shifts from foot to foot, wrings one hand in the other, doesn’t say anything. “You can’t just do that Harry, disappear on me, walk out on me without a word. You can’t do that. Not again.”

“What do you mean ‘not again’”?

“You know,” Nick whines, but Harry shakes his head ‘no’. “Like, in December. One day you were here, and the next day you weren’t. You left me, Harry.”

“I didn’t leave _you_. It’s nothing to do with you Nick. I just _left_.”

“Then why didn’t you call?” Nick asks, his voice level in spite of Harry’s outburst. “If you weren’t running away from me, why didn’t you call me back or reply to one of my eight million texts?”

“Because there was just so much going on. I spent all of December running around, doing band things, and trying to keep my head above water. After Christmas, I flew back out to LA and spent a week lying in bed in some posh hotel feeling sorry for myself before Kendall dragged me skiing after the New Year. She introduced me to Jeff, and he just changed everything.”

Nick is silent for a moment, a real feat. He looks down at his shoes and asks, cautiously—as if he doesn’t know if he wants to know the answer—“Did you sleep with Jeff?”

“No. He’s just a friend.” Harry can't believe that's what Nick is focusing on.

“I mean, I thought you would move onto a younger model eventually, but he’s what, a year younger than me?”

“Nick,” Harry pleads, “there’s nothing going on with Jeff. And I thought we moved past this whole age difference thing a long time ago.”

“Well, what about with Kendall?” Nick pushes. “It’s all over the papers.”

“Jesus Nick no! She was just a friend. A good friend.” Yes, a good friend, he thinks, and his mind jumps to an image of Kendall above him, riding his cock with long, smooth movements. Harry wonders if Nick can see the lie on his face. “I can’t even have lunch with a girl before everyone and their mother thinks we’re dating. You know everything the papers say is a load of crap.”

“Well they were right about you and me.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “Okay, almost everything. I never would’ve slept with Kendall or Jeff, not even if they had wanted to.” Behind his eyes, Kendall moves up and down his cock, one hand on his stomach, one hand running through her hair. The lie settles hot and heavy in his stomach.

“Of course they wanted to Haz,” Nick scoffs. “Everyone in the world wants to sleep with you. Surely you know that.”

“Fine. Everyone wants to sleep with me. I’m a sex symbol. Whatever." He can hear how cocky that sounds and he hates it. The image of Kendall riding him switches to one of her splayed out beneath him, and the lie twists inside his gut. “Kendall and I are hardly even friends anymore.”

“What about Jeff though? I see photos of the two of you all over Tumblr. They think you’re together now.”

“It’s nothing like that. Jeff is a friend, and he’s been so great to me. He took me to see his family’s therapist, Dr. Dunn, who is great and knows how to keep a secret, so I finally didn’t have to worry about things being leaked. He let me stay in his flat so I wasn’t alone in a hotel room anymore. He and his family basically adopted me. He dragged me out of bed on my bad days, and sat with me in the sun for hours on end. And on good days, he was always game to tag along on whatever adventure I dreamed up. He took me house shopping and helped me find the house with the most sun possible. He even signed the deed as a trustee.”

“I would’ve done that for you,” Nick whispers, kicking the toe of one shoe against the floor. “If I had known, I would’ve been there. Would’ve done all that for you.”

“Well you weren’t, and Jeff was. I needed a friend, my _best friend_ , and you couldn’t or wouldn’t seem to do that for me. I even tried calling you in January when I got my head back together a bit, but you wouldn’t even put me through to voicemail. I needed you, Nick, and you left me out in the cold.”

“That’s not fair Harry,” Nick sniffles. “I tried to call you, you’re the one who wouldn’t talk to me.”

“You know what’s not fair, Nick?” Harry barks, suddenly enraged. “Pretending I don’t even exist, not calling me on my birthday, then calling me up when you’re drunk and lonely and you know I’m in town.” His words bounce off the cement walls of the stairwell, and the sudden outburst takes both Nick and himself aback. Nick takes an almost imperceptible half step away from him. “What’s not fair is asking me to crawl into bed with you, to sleep beside you. Especially when I know you have a new boyfriend.”

“What?” Nick hisses. “Who told you that?”

Harry drops his eyes to the floor. He doesn’t want to sell out Aimee. Sweet, lovely Aimee, who loves them both so much, and who can’t keep a secret to save her life. “It doesn’t matter,” he finally says. “I just… do you love him?” Harry asks, his voice desperate.

“Harry it’s not-”

“Do you love him? Please Nick,” Harry begs.

“I don’t know Harry. I don’t know,” Nick replies, shaking his head. “It hasn’t been that long, but… I don’t know.”

“Okay.” Harry can’t seem to muster up any more words than that.

“I... I’m sorry,” Nick offers, voice low and a little rough. “You just… You disappeared and it’s been two months. And I thought you were with Kendall, then Jeff, and Billy is so sweet. And you keep saying moving to LA has nothing to do with me, but it certainly didn’t feel that way. You move halfway across the world and you don’t call and I don’t even understand why you moved there in the first place. Of course I’m going to move on.”

“I thought you understood Nick. About me moving to LA, and the sun and the photosynthesis and my depression. Last night you said you understood.”

“Well,” Nick mutters, “I don’t understand. I don’t understand your weird new tattoo, and I frankly don’t understand photosynthesis. And I don’t understand why you’re depressed. And I don’t understand why you can’t be here, in London. But that doesn’t matter Harry. You’re my best mate, no matter who I’m dating, no matter where you are. You know that.”

But Harry doesn’t want to be Nick’s best mate. He loved Nick. No, he _loves_ Nick. They had been together for so long, and Harry realizes neither of them ever even said it. How fucked up do they both have to be to never have said “I love you”? Why does Billy get this and he doesn’t? Because Billy is older? More stable? Not depressed? Maybe he wants to settle down with Nick, something Harry can’t do just now -and was never an issue before- but he suddenly wishes he could. Buy a house, buy a set of sensible dinner, plates, maybe a kid. Before he even knows what he’s doing, he’s saying it. “I love you Nick.” And there it is, out in the open. Those words fill the air in the stairwell, and Harry’s lungs feel tight.

Nick closes the space between them and throws an arm around Harry, and Harry instantly knows the other man has taken his words the wrong way. “Love you too kiddo. Glad we had this talk.” Everything feels wrong. His skin hurts all over, and his lungs won’t expand. It’s not thunder and lightning now, but rather like being condemned by electric chair.

“I have to go. I’m sorry Nick I have to go,” Harry mutters as he backs out of the stairwell, trying to catch his breath.

He hears Nick call after him, “Good luck tonight, I’ll call-” but the door slams heavy behind him, cutting Nick off mid-sentence.

“Harry, you’ve just won! Go get up there!” someone in black yells at him. He tries to take a deep breath, even though it feels as if his windpipe is clothespinned shut, and sprints towards the other boys on stage. As he bounds up the stairs to the stage, he can see Nick walking back to his seat, typing into his phone and looking totally fine. He runs a hand through his hair, pulls himself together the last bit, and takes the mic Liam is offering him. “I’m really sorry, I was having a wee.” His voice is the slightest bit husky from yelling and choking back tears, and he hopes no one will notice. “The toilets are ages away.”

 

**

The sky is still dark when Harry arrives at Liams place, holding two bags that hold the last of his things from the old flat. He can hear the other four boys cackling inside as he approaches Liam’s front door, and for a split second, considers just going back to his flat. They’re all so happy, high off the recent wins and who knows what else, and he just doesn’t know if he can do that too. Before he can turn away however, he sees a pale face pressed to the window, and Niall’s sudden smile cuts across the darkness. His face disappears, only to reappear as he flings open the front door and drags Harry inside the flat.

“Harry’s here!” he calls into the living room, and three heads poke up from behind various pieces of furniture.

Zayn throws him a sleepy half smile and drawls, “Hey mate, thought you’d never come. Too busy with Grimshaw or summat.”

Harry drops his bags on the floor and settles into a couch, Niall sticking close by him. He grabs an open beer from the table in front of him and takes a swig. The other lads are already halfway to wasted, and he intends to catch up. “Uh, no,” he faltered. “Not with Grim. We, uh, broke up actually. I guess.” Niall’s eyes go wide and he makes a pouty face, then snuggles into Harry’s side.

“So you weren’t getting sucked off by him in the toilets?” inquired Louis from the carpet, where he’s laying, flat out, a beer balancing on his sternum. “That was my bet as to why you were late getting the award.”

“Uh, no. We were talking. That’s why I was late.” Niall snuggle deeper into his side, and Liam reaches up from his spot on the floor to pat Harry on the knee.

“’m sorry mate,” Niall mumbles into his ribcage, before untucking his head to place a smacking kiss on Harry’s cheek.

Louis makes a gagging sound, making his beer tremble. “Eugh, stop it Neil! We know you’ve always had a crush on Harry, but that’s gross!”

“Oh c’mon Lou, maybe now that I’m single we can rekindle our secret romance,” Harry jokes, his mouth tugging up a bit at the corners. The other boys let out a collective groan at the mention of an old annoyance.

“I don’t think my girlfriend would be too happy about that,” Louis laughs, pulling a face at Harry.

“C’mon Lou,” Harry pleads, making the puppy-dog face he so often uses to get his way. “We could run away together.”

“A tempting offer young Harold, but only member of this bad I’d have a secret romance with would be Zayn. Have you seen those cheekbones?” Louis takes off a shoe and throws it at Zayn, lying the wrong way across an armchair. It misses him by a mile.

“So that’s what you two do on bus one,” Liam muses with a grin, and Harry is so proud of him. He never used to make jokes, and now he tosses them around like it’s nothing. “I thought it was just a lot of smoking weed and stupid tattoos.”

“We do that too,” Louis insists. “Bus one is just lots of weed and sodomy. Should join us some time, quite fun.”

“Shut up Lou,” Zayn breaths. “You’re an idiot. Also like, the most annoying high person ever. I don’t know why I smoke wit’cha.”

“That’s exactly why I quit,” Harry teases. “Well, that, and my asthma. _And_  I would eat everything in sight. Not good for my dainty figure.” Niall pokes him in the side, and Harry knocks his elbow lightly against Niall’s jaw.

“Maybe I should start, might help my knee not hurt,” Niall reasons.

Louis sits suddenly upright, knocking the beer off his chest and spilling it over Liam’s carpet. He crawls across the widening brown spot to cling to the blonde boy’s skinny leg. “No Niall!” he cries, bringing his voice up an octave. “You must stay innocent, sweet little Niall.” Niall knees him in the chin and Louis howls, making a grand display of clutching his chin and falling back onto the carpet.

“Shut up Louis!” Liam and Zayn yell in unison. Louis shrugs, and picks up his spilled beer.

“Both of you should ease off anyways,” Liam suggests. “We start tour soon and you don’t want your voices to be fucked up.”

“Yes daddy,” coos Louis, throwing Liam an exaggerated wink.

Niall doubles over with laughter, and Harry steals his beer. “So funny Lou!” Niall barks. “Good one Lou.” Louis beams, and Liam shakes his head.

“You know, I hate all of you sometimes,” Liam grumbles, and before he can continue, Louis is sitting on his chest, and the others are scrambling to get in on the dog pile.

Lying wedged somewhere between Niall and Zayn, Harry thinks that this is exactly why he loves these four boys so much. Someone in the group is always moving, always talking, and Harry always feeds off of them, taking in their happiness when he can’t find his own. The manic energy between them is palpable and it flows warm and welcome over Harry, like sunlight.

By the time Anne and Robin pick Harry up to head to the airport, the sky is tinged with pink and orange, and Harry almost feels better.

 

**

He’s always been able to fall asleep easily in cars. From that time when Anne whisked them away in the night, to the tour bus, the movement of the wheels has always been able to lull him to sleep. And now, running on very little sleep on the way to Heathrow, it’s no different. He’s on that cusp between sleep and awake, where everything starts to feel hazy and your thoughts begin to morph into dreams when his phone buzzes in his lap. He doesn’t check the caller ID before he picks up, switches on speaker-phone.

“Hiiiii,” he says sleepily into the phone.

“Hiiii, you’re on radio,” the scratchy voice on the phone replies, and _shit_ , he wish he had checked to see who was calling before he picked up. Harry sighs, and wishes it wasn’t him. It didn’t exactly end poorly last night, but Harry really doesn’t want the first time they talk after that encounter to be on the radio. After he told Nick he loved him and Nick… He cuts off the thought for now.

“Am I? I'm in the car with my parents. How are you feeling? I'm alright. I didn't drink that much. You sound awful,” he says, choosing his words wisely.

“Thanks,” Nick replies, and Harry can practically hear the face he’s pulling over the phone. “How do I sound Anne?” Shit, Harry realizes he hasn’t yet told Anne what went down between the two of them.

“You sound wonderful like always,” Anne sing-songs, chipper as always.

“Thank you Anne! Harry you should be more polite like your mum.” Harry grits his teeth, almost growls, and Anne shoots him a questioning look.

“The scarf looked wonderful,” Anne pipes up, changing the subject quickly. Harry mouths ‘thank you’ to her. She just nods.

“Anne styled me yesterday,” Nick says matter-of-factly. Harry knew that scarf looked familiar, too much like one he had brought Anne back from New York. But when the hell had Nick been to see his mum yesterday? “We really like you now. Round of applause.” This was followed by the faint sound of Nick buzzing in the applause effect on the radio. Harry can’t do this anymore, can’t pretend everything is fine and dandy between him and Nick on the radio for everyone to hear.

“Speak to you later,” he says, cutting off the conversation.

“Speak to you in a bit,” Nick chirps, and Harry really hopes that they don’t.

“Bye Anne!”

“Bye love,” she says, throwing a worried glance at Harry.

Harry hangs up, rubs his temples as he feels a headache pooling behind his eyes. “What’s wrong love?” Anne asks, her voice low so that Robin won’t hear from up front in the driver’s seat. “Did you and Nick fight? Something’s not right.” He shakes his head, not meeting her worried gaze. He wonders if she knows. She always seems to know. “Okay, “ she whispers, stroking one hand over his hair. “When you’re ready to talk to me, I’m here. I love you Harry.”

“I know,” he breaths. “I know.” But the truth is, he’s not entirely sure what’s going on. Last night hadn’t exactly been a fight, but

_Don’t call me again. On or off the air._

His phone buzzes with a reply from Nick almost immediately.

_what? why? whats going on?_

Harry types quickly, his fingers flying across the screen.

_I’m still in love with you Nick. I can't do this. I can't._

_By the way, I did fuck Kendall. She gives better head than you. He knows the timing is wrong, but he wants Nick to be in pain too._

_I broke my own heart loving you._

He doesn’t know what he wants from Nick. To say he loved Harry back? To beg him to be friends? To tell him to fuck off? Each resonse would be equally devastating. But in the end, it’s none of these. The only reply gets from Nick comes an hour later when he, Robin and Anne are waiting at their gate at the airport.

_ok_

Somehow, these two letters are worse than any response Harry could’ve imagined. He runs to the bathroom and vomits.

 

**

Harry hasn’t slept at all on their flight from Heathrow to LAX, he didn’t sleep in the car, and he didn’t really sleep the night before. This, combined with several too-sweet Jack & Cokes has made his head a little fuzzy and his lids heavy. He’s not sure how much time has passed since takeoff, but thinks they’re probably somewhere over the indistinguishable middle of America when his mother makes her way over to his seat.

“Hi love,” Anne coos, squeezing herself into the seat of the first class cubicle next to her son and wraps her arm around his back. He buries himself into her side—as if he’s still five years old—and wraps his arms around her waist. She rubs his back slowly, and places a kiss on the top of his head.

After a few moments of sitting there in silence, Anne confesses, “Gemma told me what’s going on with you.” So she does know, he thinks. Harry can hear her breath catch in her throat, and he feels her chest stop moving. He doesn’t say anything.

“Harry, I need you to listen to me for a minute.” She cups Harry’s chin in her palm and turns his face towards her. He gazes up at her through his curtain of lashes. “Okay?”

Harry nods slowly, licks his lips—dry from the long flight— “Okay.” He moves his face from her grip, but doesn’t break eye contact.

“I don’t know exactly what’s going on with you and Nicholas, but when he called, you didn’t act like you usually do around him. If you want to tell me what’s going on, you can tell me, if you don’t you don’t. But I’m here for you, and I love you. And if it had anything to do with you moving to Los Angeles, I’m sorry, but you know it’s what’s best for you.”

“I know,” Harry mutters, tries to keep his breaths deep and steady. “He found someone else,” he says after a long pause. “And I just… I put myself out there, I put it all on the line for him. And I don’t know,” his voice catches in his throat. “I don’t know if it wasn’t enough or if he didn’t understand. But I told him I loved him, and… And I feel awful.” Anne pulls him close again, and places a soft kiss on to the crown of his head. “My heart physically hurts. I just need to know it’s going to be okay. That I’m going to be okay. Because right now, I’m getting the feeling like I should never open up again.”

“Oh love,” she replies, pulling her face out of his hair. “You know it will be. I know you don’t feel it right now, but you’ve always been so strong. I know you would feel worse if you hadn’t told Nicholas what was going on and how you feel. And maybe some day, he will understand. But maybe he won’t, and maybe you’ll open yourself up to someone else and there won’t be any need to explain.” She dislodges herself from the seat besides Harry, and says “I think I’m going to try to get some sleep before we land. You should too.” She begins to walk aways, then stops, and turns to face her son. “By the way, we’re still meeting the Azoffs right? I want to meet this Jeff you’ve been going on about, and properly thank his family for taking care of you.”

“Yeah, we’re having lunch with Jeff tomorrow and dinner with the family the day after.”

“Perfect. That Jeff, he seems like someone who wouldn’t need you to explain.”

“Mum, he’s not… into me like that. He’s not gay.”

“Of course not Harry,” Anne says, as she turns back to walk away. “He’s a good lad is all.” Harry beings to settle back into his seat before he hears his mother’s voice again. “Harry?”

“Yeah?”

“You’ve always been the type of person that wears their heart on their sleeve. Don’t think it’s such a bad thing.”

 

**

When they land in Los Angeles several hours later, Harry immediately calls Jeff.

“Hey,” Harry says into the phone, his voice gruff from the long flight. “Wanna come with me tonight to get a new tattoo?”

Jeff laughs. “What is it this time? A vine going down your ankle?”

 

“Shut up,” Harry says, but his tone is more joking than serious. “No, it’s a heart.”

“Right. Can’t subsist on just sunlight can you? Need blood too?”

“What about sunlight though?” Harry asks. “What do you mean?”

“The photosynthesis thing. I looked it up while you were gone. I think I understand why you got the leaves.”

 ****  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TO BE CONTINUED
> 
> Questions? Comments? Concerns? Feel the need to yell at me? Just wanna say hi? Pop over to my tumblr!
> 
> (This fic has been my baby for a month, and inside my head for even longer. A lot of this is projection of my own feelings/issues onto Harry, but isn't that how the best writing comes about? Partially inspired by Bea in the little read & much under appreciated Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants 5.)


	2. Respiration (Interlude)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s so sunny, so blissfully, perfectly sunny here. More so than any place he has ever been in his entire life, even LA. In LA, the sun is sharp and bright and overpowering; it has a point to prove. But here, the sun is calm, it warms his skin inch by inch, lapping at him rather than consuming him. He thinks maybe he should move here, and he says as much to Liam, stretched out beside him on the padded loungers.
> 
> “You can’t move to Brazil,” Liam says, like it should be completely logical and obvious to Harry.
> 
> Harry rolls onto his front with a grunt. “Yes I can. Please inform the lads that I’m leaving the band and moving to Brazil.”

It’s so sunny, so blissfully, perfectly sunny here. More so than any place he has ever been in his entire life, even LA. In LA, the sun is sharp and bright and overpowering; it has a point to prove. But here, the sun is calm, it warms his skin inch by inch, lapping at him rather than consuming him. He thinks maybe he should move here, and he says as much to Liam, stretched out beside him on the padded loungers.

“You can’t move to Brazil,” Liam says, like it should be completely logical and obvious to Harry.

Harry rolls onto his front with a grunt. “Yes I can. Please inform the lads that I’m leaving the band and moving to Brazil.”

Liam snorts. “Really?” he asks, sliding his sunnies down the bridge of his nose and quirking an eyebrow. Liam has the most expressive eyebrows, and Harry wonders if thats something he could teach Harry.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Harry muses. “Maybe I’ll become a farmer. Or a fisherman. Get myself a shack on the beach, spend all day fishing in the sun.”

“I should’ve guessed. It’s all about the sunlight again isn’t it? You and your photopsychics.”

Harry groans. “Liiiiiam,” he wines. “It’s not photopsychics it’s photoSYNTHESIS.”

“Okay,” Liam yawns. “You and your photosynthesis and your leaves.”

“Liam, that’s not exactly-”

“Harry, I love you mate, don’t get me wrong, but I so don’t care right now. I just want to have a drink, lay by the pool, and think about anything but that girl with the re-donkulous ass across the pool from us.”

Harry reaches over to pet Liam on the head. “What a good boyfriend. Depriving yourself from looking at other girls asses.”

“Fuck you,” Liam mumbles, his face now planted firmly in the lounger’s thick white cushion. Harry knows from experience that within a minute, Liam will be fast asleep, face down and shirtless with his baseball cap shielding the back of his head. Harry adjusts his fedora, and reminds himself to ask Caroline to buy him a few more. He doesn’t care what Jeff says, fedoras are the coolest type of headwear. Right after bandanas. To his right, Liam has started snoring loudly. Harry scoops an ice cube out of his drink and drops it on Liam’s back, where it melts and pools in the dip of his spine. Liam doesn’t even stir.

“You’re so boring,” Harry says to an unconscious Liam. “Fine then, I’ll find someone else to play with.” Liam snores loudly in response, and Harry takes a quick second to draw a vulgar shape on his back in sunblock.

He looks about the pool, trying to decide who he should pester next. He spots Niall in the corner, nursing a Heineken, propped up on a lounger and chatting with Cal. A perfect target. He saunters over to them, walking along the edge of the pool.

“Niall!” he calls, trying to grab his band mate's attention. “Niall look! I’m going to do a flip into the pool.”

“Good for you mate,” Niall replies without even sparing Harry a glance before turning his attention back to Cal and his beer.

Harry folts his arms petulantly over his chest, cross that no one is paying attention to him today. It was his idea to come to a hotel by the beach, to give them a relaxing few days between and before shows, but no one seems to remember that now. They’re too busy relaxing and not giving Harry the thanks he deserves.

“Niall,” he chirps, thinking quickly. “Catch.” And with that, he tosses his hat towards Niall, where it bounces off his sunglasses and onto the pool deck in front of him. Niall looks towards Harry -with what Harry chooses to believe is an extreme love- as Harry winds up and backflips into the pool.

He comes up from under the water and tosses his hair back, water cascading out of his damp curls. Something hits him on the bridge of his nose and falls with a soft ‘plop’ into the water. When he wipes the water from his eyes, he sees his hat sinking beneath the sparkling water and Niall smirking at him.

“‘S what ya get mate,” he says with a smile. “Let the rest of us relax, yeah?”

“Fine,” Harry pouts. “Maybe Ben will want to hang out with me.”

“Doubt it!” Niall crows, eliciting laughs from the people lounging around him.

Harry grabs his hat and drops it back on his head as he clambers out. He spots Ben chatting to Zayn and gallops over to them, immediately draping himself over Ben’s torso.

“Beeeeeeeen,” Harry growls. “Come hang out with me.”

Ben makes a disgusted face and attempts to extract himself from Harry’s grasp, but Harry has a firm hold around his neck.

“Harry,” he groans, “you’re sopping wet mate. Get the fuck off.”

 

**

“Fore!” Harry yells, the collision of club and ball eliciting a sharp crack.

Jeff drops to the ground, covering his head with gloved palms and peeking up from the grass cautiously. It’s all a bit over dramatic in Harry’s opinion. He hit that caddy with a golf ball one time, and now everyone runs for cover when he’s up.

“You’re quite rude,” he yells at Jeff. “I don’t appreciate it.”

“I’m just taking precautions,” Jeff hollers back as he stands up. “I would rather not have a second head due to one of your awful swings.”

“That was one time,” Harry pouts. “And I was so apologetic! Offered to drive him to the hospital and everything.”

Jeff strides over to him and elbows him in the stomach.

“C’mon Styles. Just admit it. You’re bad at golf.”

“Never.”

“Well, you just got your ball into that sand trap. So I would beg to differ.”

 

**

Harry’s at a recording studio in Hollywood when his phone lights up. There’s a picture of Niall -taken on Halloween the year before, his face painted in black and white makeup- with his name plastered over the top. Harry excuses himself from the studio and steps out into the hallway to take the call.

“Hey Ni. How are you? How’s London without me?”

“Terrible,” comes the answer down the line, but it doesn’t sound like Niall.

“Nick?” Harry whispers, his breath catching in his throat.

“London is terrible without you. Everything is terrible without you, popstar.”

“Listen, Nick. I don’t-”

“I miss you,” Nick whispers, his voice slurring. “I miss you and I’m sorry.”

“Nick,” Harry pauses, “are you drunk.”

There’s a moment of silence before he answers, and Harry can hear him breathing heavily down the line. They’re several thousand kilometers apart, but for a moment, Harry feels as if Nick is right beside him.

“Yes.”

“How drunk?”

“Very. I decided to have a drinking contest with Niall.”

“Bad idea,” Harry says, laughing slightly.

“I know. But I’m not so drunk I’ll forget this.”

“Okay.”

“Nick I… I don’t know why you’re calling me. We haven’t talked since the Brits. You’re with Billy now.”

“I know.”

“You know what?” Harry asks, exasperated and tired. “Because at the Brits, you didn’t seem to know anything.

“I- I’m sorry Harry. But I understand. About the photosynthesis. I do. And that when you said you loved me, you meant it like, you’re in love with me. And I was just being an ass.”

“What do you mean Nick?” he asks. He can feel his heartbeat in his whole body, a slow thump-thump.

“I mean… I mean I love you Harry. I still love you.”

“I have to go Grim. Sorry,” Harry whispers.

He hangs up the call and stares at his phone. The background is a photo someone took of he and Jeff a week prior. Jeff is standing on his tip-toes to kiss Harry’s cheek, and Harry is smiling so hard his eyes crinkle up.

“What the fuck,” he whispers, slumping against the wall behind him. “What the fuck.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long, I've had a rough summer. This is just a short interlude. Part 3 will be up soon and it will be a longer, full length chapter! I swear!


End file.
